


come hell or high water

by Zaxal



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Other, Post-Canon, Serious Injuries, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:34:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22053376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaxal/pseuds/Zaxal
Summary: An injured Crowley seeks refuge at the bookshop. He can't be healed with miracles, but that isn't going to stop Aziraphale from helping his beloved demon.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 322
Collections: My faves - Good Omens Whump





	come hell or high water

**Author's Note:**

> this has been sitting completed in my drafts for months, and i finally decided to post it. there may be follow-up chapters added later, but it can be read as a complete fic as is, and it's marked complete because i'm not sure if i will write more.
> 
> feel free to subscribe if you want to see more and/or let me know in the comments!

The morning shifted into the afternoon and settled its weary bones just as the overcast sky darkened further, wind whipping through the streets and rain driving all but the most stubborn pedestrians inside. Inside his bookshop, the angel named Aziraphale smiled to himself, luxuriating in the lack of customers who might try to — Heaven forbid — buy up any of his precious books.

There was a unique smell to the rain, something he remembered from the walls of Eden, earthy and cleansing. Humans with a flaming sword, defending themselves from a lion, and the first bit of greenery, unnoticed by him at the time, escaped as seeds which drank from the skies. Paper rustled as he turned the page of his book, spectacles settled neatly on the end of his nose though the words fought with memories for his full attention.

He ought to have been angry with Crowley for the temptation that had gone so horribly awry, but having lived in the world for as long as he had… Eden was surely never meant to be the end of things. Even if Aziraphale hadn’t believed in God’s Ineffable Plan, he could hardly imagine humans without the ability to sprawl and claim as they had. It had been a part of them before the first word had rolled off of the serpent’s tongue.

Aziraphale closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath and letting it wash over him. Rain and Soho and the smell of books that had been allowed to grow old and gather dust. All that was missing was perhaps a warm cup of cocoa or tea, but before he allowed himself the indulgence of miracling one up, another scent overtook all others.

Aziraphale’s eyes snapped open just as his book clapped closed. With practiced hands, he took off his glasses, tucking them safely into a pocket.

The taste of metal lingered in the back of his throat, burning and acidic.

In quick strides, he made for the door, preparing for… he wasn’t quite sure. It felt like trouble.

He flung open the door, silently convincing the sign to flip over to ‘Closed’ as he peered out into the deluge.

Aziraphale recognized the swaying figure that approached the shop. Crowley’s walk had always been off-kilter, a delicate balance of hips and shoulders following aimlessly wandering steps. Now, though, the familiar saunter pitched desperately, and Crowley doubled over, feet spread to try and keep himself from falling even as his knees started to give way. The cars on the road swerved just around him, though Aziraphale was certain no one could see him. One wing extended behind him, dark and ragged, and the other… It took Aziraphale a moment to notice how it dragged behind him, wet, weighted, heavy as Crowley attempted to get closer to the shop.

Aziraphale stepped into the rain without hesitation, crossing into the road to put a hand delicately on Crowley’s elbow.

“Angel,” he rasped, and the burning sensation in the back of Aziraphale’s throat worsened. He reached for a miracle only for Crowley to shake his head desperately, drops of black demonic blood dragging down his sharp face. “Don’t.”

“Let’s get you inside,” Aziraphale said as diplomatically as possible. Crowley could bear the pain for a moment or two longer, and then Aziraphale could assess the damage, heal him, and all would be well.

Only, once inside, Aziraphale reached out to him again, and Crowley took a stumbling step away, backing into one of the shelves and nearly tripping over his dislocated wing. “You can’t.”

He looked worse in the light. His pitch-dark blood ran down the left side of his face, dark hair matted over what was most likely a head injury. His clothes were wet with something heavier, darker than the rain. Crowley’s breathing hitched at the same point in every cycle, likely indicating injured ribs. Worst of all, though, were the burns. His right hand showed it most plainly, the skin charred black and blistered hideously, and there were flashes of red on his face, proof of some minor torment before they’d put him through worse.

Aziraphale’s lips set in a straight line. “Allow me.”

“Aren’t you _listening_?” Crowley demanded, wings twitching as if to flare, only for him to cringe in pain. “I can’t be healed with magic.”

“Surely a divine miracle—” he began, tone forced to heel even as he felt panic crawling up his chest, fingers curling around his heart and _twisting_ until he thought it might discorporate him.

“I’ll go up in flames,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale didn’t miss the shiver that crawled along his skin. “Or worse. I don’t want to find out what they consider ‘worse’ than this.” He swallowed thickly, looking somehow small despite his lanky frame. Fear didn’t suit him, and Aziraphale fought off the urge to crowd him, to embrace him with his wings, to hide him from the world.

“I can undo it,” he said, desperately grasping at straws. “If I place you under Heaven’s protection—”

“Think that’d just bring on a new set of problems.”

Crowley was right, of course. An angel granting sanctuary to a human was claiming them. The mortals went on to become strong forces for good, usually known the world over. Guardian angels for demons didn’t exist.

Heaven would know immediately, and they would move swiftly to dispatch them both.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” Crowley said weakly, and Aziraphale became aware that he had been standing utterly still, nearly frowning for far too long.

“I’m glad you came here. If I’d found out about this after the fact, I would have been more than cross.”

A harsh laugh scraped out of Crowley’s throat, “I’d hate for you to be _cross_.”

Aziraphale’s lips tightened into a facsimile of a smile before he gave up on it entirely. “If miracles are out, then there’s only really one option: the old-fashioned way. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to let humans— Oh, dear, your wings.”

“Yeah. My wings.” He grimaced, “And I— I don’t—” Aziraphale’s head tilted just so, encouraging him to continue. “If even one of them prayed…”

“Right. Of course.” Prayers themselves weren’t inherently harmful, but if the wrong angel overheard… Yes, it was best to avoid that if possible.

Another shaky inhale from Crowley, and Aziraphale felt something inside of him snap to attention. It was no good standing around, moaning about what couldn’t be done. Crowley was in pain; Aziraphale was going to do something about it.

“Be a dear and sit down for me.”

Warily, “Why?”

“Crowley,” he said as amiably as he could manage though his tone still had an edge. “I’m not going to stand here while you suffer. Not while there’s something I can do about it.” Aziraphale removed his coat, hanging it on the back of a chair before unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt.

 _“Is_ there something you can do?”

Rolling up his sleeves, he said, “I’ve spent the better part of human history reading what they’ve written. That includes, from time to time, medical journals, textbooks, research, and—”

“And you think that qualifies you to play ‘doctor’? I’m not even human!”

“I think we’re running quite low on options, so we need to make do with what we have.” He tugged the chair away from his desk, turning it to face Crowley. “Sit. And take off your shirt.”

Crowley glowered sullenly but lowered himself into the chair, facing the back so that his wings hung loose and untouched. The loose tie came off easily enough, but Aziraphale had no sooner summoned the supplies he’d need than Crowley swore, trying to move his burned fingers to undo the buttons on his shirt.

Somehow, Aziraphale kept calm. Rage burned at the middle of him, needing to know who had caused this, how to make them pay, but such passions could be dealt with properly once Crowley was no longer tempting Death. Returning to Hell now would surely be the end of him.

After only a moment of watching his burned hand move, Aziraphale approached him the way one might approach a frightened animal. “Allow me.”

Crowley gave a shaky nod, and Aziraphale moved as deftly as he could, unfastening the buttons, exposing the damaged skin. Beneath the collar of his shirt, the burns immediately became as bad as his arm, the blisters and charred skin making Aziraphale’s stomach turn. Farther down his torso, there was a deep wound that had — _miraculously_ , Aziraphale thought with a twisting scowl — missed his corporation's vital organs.

Scissors appeared in his hand as he rounded to Crowley’s back, careful of his wings. The demon stiffened immediately, biting back a pitiful noise when it agitated whatever other wounds laid under the shirt. As careful as careful could be, Aziraphale set to cutting it off, exposing inelegant lines, open wounds that still oozed blood. Chunks were missing; whatever they had beaten Crowley with had tore into him, ripping flesh out.

There was only one wound different from the rest, and it matched the deep gash on Crowley’s front.

They had speared him completely, pinning him in place like a bug, then acted with the same malicious intent as a child with a magnifying glass and a line of ants.

The dislocated and broken wing held on tight with stubborn sinew. It could be healed. All of these injuries, Aziraphale realized with a furrowed brow, could eventually heal if tended to.

Whoever had attacked him hadn’t wanted to kill Crowley. They had wanted him to suffer.

Crowley twitched, and Aziraphale longed to soothe his wrecked nerves which had to be interpreting every stimulus as pain.

“I’m going to pop your wing back into place.”

“Oh, just going to _pop_ it back in, simple as that?” Crowley’s words were all he had, and Aziraphale brushed off the aggressive tone of voice.

“Yes, and then set it so the broken bones can heal. On the count of three.”

Crowley’s hands tightened on the chair, knuckles white — hardly a surprise, Aziraphale wondered at how much blood he had lost. “Get on with it.”

“One,” his hands picked up the fragile wing with all the tender, loving care he was physically capable of. He almost felt quite bad, because when he said “Two,” he popped the wing back in its socket, and Crowley pitched forward on the chair with a muffled scream, legs flailing against the floor.

The wounds that had sealed some on their own were torn open again, and Aziraphale fought the urge to touch him. Instead, he clasped his hands in front of himself as Crowley’s head whipped around, his pupils having swallowed his sclera and his voice dragging over the syllables in his words with a menacing hiss. “You _lied_ to me, angel?”

“Oh, I did,” he confessed with an attempt at a smile. “See, you would have tensed up on ‘three’, and it would have hurt a lot worse.”

“Thank Sssatan it wasssn’t _worssse.”_

“May I get on with setting it?”

“Would you ssstop if I asssked you to?”

Aziraphale’s smile wavered. “I would take a break, yes. But stop? No.”

“Oh sssure, tell the truth _now.”_

“I want to be forthright with you, Crowley.”

He laughed which turned into a breathy whine when another wave of pain hit him. “No more liesss.”

“No more tonight.”

Crowley’s eyes narrowed, but the fight had gone out of him. The agony had won instead of his anger, and, had Aziraphale been a better angel, he might have felt bad about making Crowley angry in the first place.

“Needs must,” he murmured to himself in the same puttering way that Crowley had begun tuning out centuries ago. Aziraphale took in Crowley’s wings, relieved by the lack of visible bone even as he was disturbed by the visual misalignment that indicated multiple breaks in each. Feathers had been ripped out as well, likely the result of Crowley instinctively trying to use his wings to protect himself when he was first attacked.

A soft sigh; Aziraphale fetched a rather big roll of bandages before approaching his task. Crowley’s spine arched, another hiss between his teeth as Aziraphale gently handled the wing that had been previously dislocated. It would have felt worse if he’d started with the other and given the pain time to fade; there was no need to be cruel to Crowley who had already been through enough today. “I’ll be binding them. There isn’t exactly literature about angel wings, but at best guess, they should be healed in a few weeks.”

“Assuming I live that long.”

Aziraphale elected to ignore the needlessly ominous reminder that someone had attacked him. Someone had done _this_ to _Crowley_ —

It wasn’t as if he could forget.

“You won’t be able to use them, but, with luck, you might be able to tuck them away if you feel safe doing so.”

The bandage felt coarse in his hands, and he wished for a pair more. Doing this alone was quite difficult, but he didn’t exactly have anyone to ask for help.

It occurred to him that he could use his own wings, his miracles, and pop over to Tadfield. Anethema likely had some degree of knowledge about wrapping wings or how to treat burns, but the idea of her seeing Crowley like this made something deeply unpleasant writhe in his gut, and ice ran through his veins at the mere thought of leaving Crowley for even a few seconds.

So he set to it as best he could, wrapping the bandage in a figure eight around Crowley’s wing while constantly checking his own work, making sure that the wing looked properly aligned. It twitched in his hands, a shudder crawling up Crowley’s back to his shoulders. Pain, likely, and the unpleasant experience of someone touching his wings out of necessity.

It occurred to Aziraphale at the exact moment that he finished wrapping the bandage that he had never touched Crowley’s wings before, and he had seen them, over the course of six thousand years, fewer than a dozen times.

No wonder he wasn’t comfortable.

“There. That one’s all done.”

Aziraphale didn’t know if it was an instinctive need to rebel or if it was merely a reflex, but Crowley attempted to flex his bound wing. Another shuddering breath, the chair creaking as Crowley’s hands tightened, body going stiff.

Aziraphale had never in his expansive life had his wings bound. There had been protocols in place, social courtesy that demanded that he not take them out, but they had always been available to him if he desired them. He couldn’t fathom the depths of Crowley’s fear even if he understood it logically, his angelic senses telling him to calm and soothe and assure.

“I’ll be like this for weeks?” Crowley asked faintly. His body trembled again.

“Both wings, I’m afraid.”

“Angel— I can’t. Anything else, anything but a miracle or this.”

“You can, and you will.” ‘Must’ was the word that came to mind, but cornering Crowley in his panicked state by forcing him to admit there was no other option would only upset him further. Aziraphale gladly shouldered the blame instead. Let Crowley decide whether or not to hate him for such cruelty even if it was borne out of kindness.

“Aziraphale,” he pleaded, voice torn between anger and fear.

There was a sudden, short clap as the air made room for Aziraphale’s own wings. The sound made Crowley jump, but Aziraphale wasted no time in allowing them to brush forward, the white feathers surely visible in Crowley’s peripheral vision.

“You are not alone,” he said softly. “Until your wings are better, you may use mine.”

Crowley shivered again but didn’t protest when Aziraphale began aligning the breaks in his other wing. There were fewer here, and Crowley kept biting back small noises of complaint that he surely didn’t mean to make in the first place. Never once did Aziraphale’s embrace falter. “You’re doing so well, Crowley,” he said, trying to fill the silence with something that could be, perhaps, meaningful or helpful to his dear friend. 

The sound of the bandage made Crowley duck his head, yet another shudder running down his ruined back. “I know that you didn’t have much of a choice,” Aziraphale murmured almost into Crowley’s feathers as he began to create another large figure eight around the demon’s wing. “Nevertheless, I am so thankful that you came to me, that you’re letting me help you. You probably wouldn’t have been able to pry me out of the bookshop with hellfire.” Crowley went unnervingly still, though Aziraphale didn’t notice, busy with his work. “But you always were the braver of us.”

“Wouldn’t have…?”

Aziraphale hardly caught the words as he finished bandaging the wing. “Hm? Yes. If it’d been me.” He ran his hands down the snugly-bound wings before he could think better of it then pulled back, blushing slightly at his own behavior. Tone still light, he asked, “Would you like to try and put them away?”

Crowley reached out a shaking hand — not the burned one, thankfully — until his fingers brushed one of Aziraphale’s long primary feathers. Aziraphale froze, feeling the delicate, trembling touch of Crowley’s finger smoothing the barbs. “Crowley?”

“I would die before I let this happen to you,” he said, voice grim and determined, and Aziraphale’s heart clutched, both at the fierceness of his care and the unfairness that Aziraphale couldn’t say the same. It had already happened, and he had been ignorant. Crowley could have _died_ , and Aziraphale would have been none the wiser.

The air rushed out of his lungs. The simmering rage that he’d been diligently ignoring flooded through him so suddenly that Aziraphale was mildly surprised nothing caught fire in the wake of it.

He seethed with righteous anger, staring at Crowley’s bandaged wings, at his bleeding back, at everything he had failed to prevent.

The shelves trembled; the shop shook. It was entirely possible that all of Soho if not all of London was experiencing a minor earthquake as the Principality Aziraphale’s quiet fury burned within him.

“Angel,” Crowley croaked, turning his head to look at him, and the _fear_ in his expression only made the anger’s sharpened claws dig deeper. “You need to stop. What you’re feeling — what you’re giving off, that’s Wrath.”

Yes, he was feeling quite wrathful. It settled in his chest rather like an old, fat cat who had found the perfect spot in which to sunbathe and didn’t intend to move.

“Inappropriate for an angel, I know,” he said, voice deceptively calm yet discordant as the world continued to shudder. For the first time since the first war, he longed for his sword, for any weapon that could adequately set the universe to rights.

What had he said about guns? ‘Lending weight to a moral argument?’ He had quite the argument to make himself; Heaven and Hell would both listen to it at the edge of a blade.

 _“Please,”_ Crowley said, cringing away from Aziraphale. Flinching from _him,_ and, like that, the maddening rush swept out of him as the world around him settled back to where it belonged. Aziraphale shook his head, a strange pain sitting behind his eyes as if he’d spent a century staring at small, nearly-illegible scribbling.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, willing the headache away, and when he opened his eyes again, Crowley had tucked his wings away.

“My apologies. I don’t know what came over me.” With a weak smile, he asked, “May we continue?”

“Depends. You gonna bring the bookshop down around us?”

“Please, dear boy. It survived two World Wars.”

“Neither of which involved a pissed-off angel.” Crowley swallowed thickly. “You all right?”

Aziraphale brushed it off, feeling guilty for drawing Crowley’s concern, “Nothing to worry about.”

“Too much of that Wrath business, and you could Fall.”

“Crowley,” he said in the same tone of voice he used for chiding someone for asking him an irritating question with an obvious answer. “If I haven’t Fallen yet, I doubt I will at all. And if I do, at this point, I really don’t give a damn.”

His eyes widened incrementally. “You don’t mean that.”

“Oh, but I do.” Aziraphale turned to the desk where the summoned items sat to gather what he needed for the next of Crowley’s injuries. “The only real reason to avoid Falling, now, is to provide an obstacle to Heaven should they decide to come after one or the both of us again. Since they’ve already attempted to destroy me once, I don’t know if it would make a difference if I were to Fall or not.” Aziraphale placed a bowl on the ground behind Crowley’s chair, moving slowly to avoid startling the demon. “If I had continued being quite angry, it would have drawn attention. Heaven, Hell — it doesn’t matter which ‘side’ would ultimately come to investigate. They both would’ve done the same thing. That is, to say, rid themselves of the problem. They would have tried, in any case.”

“Angel…”

“I imagine they would have succeeded sooner or later.” Aziraphale took a soft cloth and used a bottle of water — not the least bit holy despite being summoned with a miracle — to wet it before pouring the rest into the bowl. He then turned his attention to the mass of lacerations on Crowley’s back. “Take a deep breath, I’m going to start cleaning these.” Crowley nodded dumbly and Aziraphale brushed the cloth over the black blood that covered his back. “That either of them would do this to you… that I couldn’t do a thing to prevent it; I suppose I lost my head a bit.” He frowned, brow furrowed in concentration. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“That—” Crowley laughed weakly. _“That’s_ what you’re worried about?”

Another brush, the blood coming off onto the cloth that Aziraphale then soaked in the bowl between his knees, cleansing it and the water before returning to his work. Crowley cringed forward on the chair, clinging as it creaked under the stress.

“Breathe,” Aziraphale reminded him rather than answering the question. “You’re doing so well.”

“Don’t _need_ to breathe.”

“It gives you something else to focus on. Unless you’re _enjoying_ experiencing the pain without distraction.” He waited until Crowley took another shuddering breath. “Good.”

They fell into a rhythm of Aziraphale caring for the wounds and reminding Crowley to breathe. The demon was too exhausted to do much more arguing. Aziraphale cleaned his back and then the stab wound on his abdomen. He stitched it up with steady hands before bandaging both ends.

The burns had swollen some in the time it had taken him, and as Crowley turned around in the chair, he found himself face-to-face with his friend who seemed, at best, hazy from the pain.

“Please, give me your hand.”

Crowley lifted the badly-burned one, trembling as Aziraphale took it oh-so gently in his own. Carefully, he separated Crowley’s fingers and applied dressings to them each. He was aware that Crowley was watching him, unblinking with that serpentine stare.

As Aziraphale wrapped his hand, an impulse flitted, quick as a thief, and under Crowley’s scrutinizing gaze, he leaned over the freshly wrapped hand, lips ghosting just over the fabric of the bandage.

And, without so much as a pause, he rose to his feet, fetching another soft cloth and bottle of water. He did his best to avoid staring back at Crowley as he cleaned the blood from his face and hair before addressing the wound buried beneath his hair. It was a nasty gash but far from deep. As he dabbed it clean, Crowley flinched, a hiss building in his throat. “We’re lucky this doesn’t require stitches.”

“Lucky,” Crowley repeated dully.

“I suppose that’s a poor choice of words on my part. But, yes — this way, I won’t have to fuss about with your hair. Small mercies.” As he stepped back, he waved his hand, sending everything he’d needed away as well as the mess he’d made of himself. “Now comes the part I think you’ll enjoy most.”

“Enjoy?” Crowley asked, incredulous.

Aziraphale held out his hand, and a sterile sheet manifested in the air, dropping gently into his grip.

“I suspect you’ll want to sleep. On your side, I would think, though unfortunately the one that I stitched. Most of these need time, and I doubt you want to be awake for all this pain.”

“Will you come with me?”

Aziraphale lifted his head, tilting to the side. “Hm?”

“To my flat. I don’t…” He swallowed thickly. “I don’t want to…” He trailed off, looking away to avoid the vulnerability of the rest of his confession.

“Oh. Oh, I see. I wasn’t planning on you returning to your flat at all, actually. I do have a bed in mine, and I would prefer to keep you somewhere where I can keep an eye on you. It would do wonders for my peace of mind. Will just need you to get up a time or two so I can check the progress of healing and change out your bandages.”

“Will you be okay if I’m asleep?”

He put on his best smile. “Certainly. No more angelic temper tantrums, I can assure you.”

“I meant—”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said as gently as he could. “The entirety of the Heavenly Host and every last one of the Legions of Hell could arrive at the front door right now, any second, and I would be more than fine so long as I knew where you were and that you were getting better.”

“Doesn’t mean you’d be _safe.”_

“No. But nothing does, my dear, so let’s work with what we have.”

Crowley took the sheet, wrapping it around himself loosely with a wince. Aziraphale led him up the stairs to his flat and the bedroom that was dusty from disuse. The bed was covered in books Aziraphale had meant to move and organize in the shop but never got around to, and with a wave of his hand, they disappeared to another ignored pile in the kitchen. Another sheet settled on the bed giving Crowley a safe space to lay.

“Will it bother you if I take the rest of my clothes off?”

“No,” Aziraphale said, irritated with himself for not thinking to ask if Crowley would be more comfortable with them off. “Are there any more injuries that need to be seen to down there?”

“Just burns.”

_“Just?”_

“It’s not like you can do much about them,” Crowley said defensively.

“But they could have swollen. Blisters could have opened.”

“They didn’t.”

Aziraphale was tempted to argue the point, but Crowley’s head was drooping. Even though he didn’t need to sleep, the exhaustion of the torture he’d been put through was starting to take its toll. “Yes, of course. Do whatever you can to make yourself comfortable. Would you like me to step outside while—”

“—No.” Crowley’s answer was immediate, desperate, nearly panicked. “But if you want to—”

“I don’t.” Softer, he asked, “Would you like me to stay in here while you sleep?”

Crowley couldn’t give it voice, so he merely nodded in quick jerks, staring at the bed.

“I will be a vigilant guardian.” He summoned the comfortable sofa up into the room, pressed against a wall. Aziraphale settled into it while Crowley rid himself of his clothes before climbing into Aziraphale’s bed. His breathing shuddered, body twitching beneath the sheet as he found the most comfortable way to lay.

Crowley settled finally, and moments after Aziraphale thought he’d fallen asleep, he murmured softly, “Thanks, angel.”

“Of course,” he said gently, unable to fathom choosing to do anything less for his dear friend in his hour of most desperate need. “Sleep, Crowley.”

After long minutes of no response and the sound of his habitual breathing, Aziraphale was certain, this time, that Crowley had gone to sleep. Aziraphale waved his hand, not caring a whit if Heaven saw how many ‘frivolous’ miracles he used to do whatever he pleased, and a book appeared on the couch next to him. Aziraphale pulled it into his lap, opened to the first page, and began his vigil.

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me on [tumblr](https://zaxal.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
